


make a believer out of me

by ragnasok



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Character Death Fix, First Time, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Reunion Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 11:30:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragnasok/pseuds/ragnasok
Summary: “It’sme, brother.” Loki crosses the room to where Thor sits on the edge of his too-wide bed. He crouches before Thor, looking up into his face—and oh, the pleading look, the expressive arch of his brows, it could be real. It could almost be real. “I’m here,” he insists.Thor lets his gaze drop. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed you saying that?”Loki's alive. Thor might need a little persuading before he believes that.





	make a believer out of me

**Author's Note:**

> Somebody on FFA last week said they wanted _All the Infinity War fix-it Thorki fics where Loki survived and their first time is desperate celebration sex. Loki tops._ I read the comment and woke up with a mighty need to write porn. If you somehow see this, nonnie, I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for the inspiration.  <3

“For what it’s worth,” Loki says, looking Thor steadily in the eyes, “I _am_ sorry.”

He even sounds as though he means it. But then, in these dreams, he always does. Thor no longer has nightmares, perhaps because they have all come true already. Instead, in the quiet of the early hours, his mind gives him what he wants. Temporarily, at least.

“I believe you,” he replies, with the same sad smile that always takes possession of his face—for though the knowledge that this is an illusion hurts, he can never help but be glad to see his brother. “But it’s hard to forgive a phantom.”

“It’s _me_ , brother.” Loki crosses the room to where Thor sits on the edge of his too-wide bed. He crouches before Thor, looking up into his face—and oh, the pleading look, the expressive arch of his brows, it could be real. It could almost be real. “I’m here,” he insists.

Thor lets his gaze drop. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed you saying that?”

“Of course not, I’m not a mind-reader.” And that is almost perfect too, the sharp edge of irritation surfacing through so fast, even at a moment like this. Truly, Thor’s unconscious mind is almost as skilled an illusionist as his brother was. He allows himself to be grateful, for a moment, that he snuck out here tonight.

It’s a humble dwelling in the fields beyond the city. Quiet, and a long walk from the palace where Wakanda’s new queen reigns and Thor’s old comrades wander the corridors hollow-eyed with loss, going through the motions of trying to figure out a strategy. They drift past one another, each shrouded in the cloud of his or her own grief, and there are sleepless footsteps beyond his chamber doors at all hours of the night.

Here, there’s nothing but the silence to remind him of what’s real. Here, he can pretend a little longer. He raises his eyes and lets himself look his fill. 

Loki looks worn tonight, paler than ever, with tired shadows under his eyes; not the sun-soaked vision of which Thor sometimes dreams. He’s wearing the same black suit he did the last time they were on Midgard, though the top button of the shirt is unfastened, revealing a pale triangle of throat, and his hair curls slightly, the way it does when he hasn’t bothered to tame it in a day or two. So almost-real.

True to form, he isn’t content to let Thor sit and stare at him. He rolls his eyes and says, “Stop _goggling_. You look half-witted,” and then everything in the dream crashes to a halt because he reaches out and takes Thor’s hand.

His grip is strong and sure, his hand just a shade cooler than a normal person’s. As it ever was.

Thor swallows hard, blinking down at their joined hands in disbelief.

His dreams have never allowed him this. Though they touched often, in those days after Asgard’s destruction, reassuring themselves with hugs and shoulder-pats and leaning subtly against one another when tired; though Thor sometimes thought that they might do more, feeling the slow build of an old unspoken longing between them and knowing that, with the old world gone, the old rules hardly mattered. Despite all that, in his dreams, Loki has never reached out for him. 

It would break the illusion. Thor always assumed that was why. Dreams are vague, their logic impossible to pin down. This, _this_ is concrete, and he holds on tightly, making Loki sway forward and steady himself with his other hand on Thor’s knee.

Or at least, it feels concrete. Perhaps his mind has given up at last, chosen to stop clinging to the wreckage of the real world and drift into fantasy.

“Brother,” Loki says, urgent now. He reaches out to touch the side of Thor’s face, and he looks like he isn’t quite sure whether he wants to kiss him or shake him. “You aren’t dreaming. Believe me.”

Thor breathes in deeply and exhales with a shudder. “Make me,” he hears himself say, and his voice is a growl somewhere deep in his chest. Outside the little house he hears wind rising and feels clouds pulling themselves close about the city, drawn to his turmoil. 

Loki’s eyes go wide and round as the implication hits him. For a moment, fear grips Thor’s heart. Perhaps this is too much, too immediate. Perhaps it will drive Loki away again, or turn him back into a dream. For all the terrifying things Thor has faced in his life, he’s not sure he would have had the courage to speak his desires were he not still half-convinced he beheld a figment.

But Loki does not pull away. He leans in closer still, until their lips are a hair’s breadth from touching, and says, “Really? Now?” It should be taunting, dismissive, but instead it’s wondering, breathless.

“Now,” Thor says, reaching out for him. His fingers curl into the hair at the nape of Loki’s neck, tight enough that it must hurt, but Loki only takes in a sharp breath and keeps gazing up at him. “And tomorrow, and the day after that. If you’re real.” _If you’re real, you don’t ever get to leave me again_. He doesn’t say that part out loud, but perhaps Loki hears it anyway, for he leans into Thor and fits their mouths together as though he’s answering a question.

There is a moment where the kiss is a still, tentative thing between them, where Thor is not quite sure where this will go. Then his body answers for him, or perhaps Loki does, and either way they are kissing with wild, messy need, kissing as though they mean to tangle themselves together so completely they become one being, two halves of a broken heart sutured together. Loki climbs into his lap, straddles his thighs and cups his face in both hands. Thor crushes him close with enough strength to make him gasp, and drinks down the sound as though it is Asgardian mead. His hair falls forward into Thor’s face, and a whiff of something sharp and smoky clings to it: no doubt the residue of whatever magic he used to get himself here. It was probably dangerous. Thor does not have it in him to care.

Truly, this is not exactly how he imagined this moment. If it happened, he used to think, it would happen in the quiet of the Ark’s stateroom, both of them tired from the day’s troubles and perhaps a little drunk. Leaning into one another, seated on the bed, would turn into lying side-by-side, and at some point Loki would make a token attempt to return to his own quarters and Thor would reach out and catch his wrist and ask him to stay. They would roll toward one another on the bed, too close for propriety, and finally there would be slow, exploratory kisses. They would map one another with care and without hurry, hands trailing lazy paths over skin. After everything, they would enjoy their peace.

That peace is shattered now, and they are truly all that remains of their world, the final embers of a dying fire. But they burn still.

Care and patience have no place here. They kiss _hard_ and it feels like it will bruise, and when Loki catches his lower lip between his teeth Thor feels the first genuine smile he’s worn in weeks tug at the corner of his mouth. He groans, rough and needy, and shoves his tongue into Loki’s mouth, and Loki sucks at it greedily. It’s not a fight for dominance, but it is a struggle, a desperate effort on both their parts to get closer than bodies can.

If there were some magic, Thor thinks deliriously, some spell that could tie them both together, never to be parted, he would tell Loki to do it here and now and worry about the consequences later.

There’s no such thing, to his knowledge, but—as though reading his mind—Loki is already doing the next best thing, tugging at the buckles of Thor’s armour, his usually-deft fingers clumsy in their haste. He must have exhausted himself getting here, if he isn’t using his magic, but something about the desperation of it lights a fire low in Thor’s belly.

He puts his strength to use, and the buttons of Loki’s ridiculous Midgardian shirt go flying everywhere. Thor shoves it halfway off his shoulders and presses his mouth to the place where Loki’s neck meets his shoulder, flickering his tongue over the skin and then sucking a bruise into it. He’s rewarded with the feeling of Loki quaking against him—and then by his own armour falling away at last, and Loki’s fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulders. They move lower and then rake up his back, leaving hot trails of pain that will probably be raised red marks in the morning.

Thor hopes so, anyway. He wants the memory, wants the evidence scored and bruised into his skin, to keep him from doubting this every time Loki leaves his sight.

Loki pushes at his chest and Thor goes willingly, sinks back onto the mattress and pulls Loki with him. They are kissing again, deep and wet, and somewhere along the way they manage to crawl out of their pants and press together all along the length of their bodies. It’s a desperate relief, and it’s like being drunk on Alfheim wine. Loki says his name breathlessly, again and again, the hard line of his cock pressed against the jut of Thor’s hip.

“I thought of nothing but getting back to you,” he says, suddenly, and then looks surprised at himself for having said it.

“Liar.” Thor grips his hips tight, thumbs digging in hard.

Loki hesitates, just briefly. “Perhaps,” he admits. “But I came as fast as I could.”

“Not fast enough.”

“I know,” he says, and dips down to kiss Thor’s mouth, the hollow of his throat. “I know.” He moves lower, teasing at one nipple and then the other with his teeth, tonguing over the flat of Thor’s belly. It feels, strangely enough, like an apology.

Not for long. No doubt divining the dangerously sentimental direction of the conversation, Loki nips at the skin of his inner thigh, making Thor bite back a gasp and jerk his hips up off the bed. He does it again, and again, hard enough that there will be tiny purple bruises there come morning. 

Loki tires of his game eventually, though, and leans up and just breathes along the length of Thor’s cock, a hot whisper of sensation that sends desire shooting through his every nerve. It’s a tempting thought, letting this play out, losing himself in the wet heat of Loki’s mouth and finding out just what other talents his tongue has, beyond lying. But it won’t be enough; Thor knows that already. He won’t have anything to remember it by tomorrow.

Loki starts a little when he sits up, giving him this wild-eyed look. Fierce, almost affronted. Or afraid, perhaps. Loki may be far less skilled at hiding his emotions than he thinks, but that doesn’t mean Thor always knows how to decipher them.

“Changing your mind, brother?” he says, voice too ragged for a taunt. Afraid, yes, and Thor has to cup his cheek and kiss him again.

“No,” he says when they part, and again, “no.” And he takes Loki’s hand in his and kisses the tips of his long fingers, and then sucks one of them into his mouth.

Loki’s lashes flutter, pupils wide. “Oh,” he breathes. 

Thor makes a low, hungry sound and sucks harder, thinking only of the sensation, the faint salt taste of his brother’s skin and the hint of something cold and mineral beneath it. A moment later, the tip of another finger pushes insistently at his lips, and he opens for it easily. When the fingers of Loki’s free hand brush against his cock—barely grazing the skin, an unbearable lightness of touch—his breath catches and his hips jump, but he does not falter, does not stop.

Loki keeps up his teasing, letting him suckle, for long moments, but just when Thor thinks he can bear it no longer, he stops. His fingers withdraw, and Thor blinks. Any other time, he might expect to find his brother laughing at him, thinking it a triumph, or at least a wonderful jest, to have reduced him to such desperate need. Instead Loki is looking into his face as though searching for answers, lips parted in something that looks almost like prayer. 

When Thor’s eyes find his he seems to recover himself—at, least, enough for a half-smile to tug at his lips as he reaches down, and back, and presses in.

It’s just the tip of his finger, but it’s so present, so inescapably _there_ , that Thor’s breath escapes him as though he’s been hit. Loki’s been unexpectedly quiet until now, but at that, he gives a short, breathy laugh and says, “Not so predictable after all, perhaps?”

The memory of their conversation on Sakaar has come back to Thor time and again, since the Ark’s destruction. If he’d been a little stupider, if he’d learned to push Loki’s buttons a little less accurately, then perhaps his brother would still be alive. Thor would be dead, of course, and all of Asgard, and Hela rampaging unchecked across the cosmos—but for all that, the ache of regret in his chest refused to fade.

Now, at last, it dies. Thor reaches down and finds Loki’s free hand and grips it tight in his own. 

“Not all old tricks are bad ones,” he says, meaning, _You can break my heart a thousand times just as long as you come back_ , and Loki blinks hard and looks away.

He crawls back down Thor’s body, then, and Thor expects another finger, but instead it’s the hot tip of Loki’s wicked tongue. The shock of it makes him arch up off the bed and Loki grabs at his hips and holds him down, and yes, yes, this is what he needs, Loki’s fingernails pressing crescents into his skin and Loki’s tongue working its way inside of him, fucking him in quick, shallow movements.

For the first time tonight, Thor dares to close his eyes, letting the sensation take him over. It sends a warm little shock up his spine, his nerves singing, as though Loki is working some strange electricity of his own. It’s real, it’s in him, and he gives himself over to it gladly.

Distantly, it occurs to him that it might not be wise let his need show so obviously. There will be no pretending he is willing to let his brother go, after this.

But then he has so rarely been wise when it comes to Loki. And right now, he thinks, beneath the haze of lust and the sound of his heart hammering double-time in his chest, it seems his foolishness has not served him so badly after all.

Loki works him open with little swirls and jabs of his tongue. It isn’t gentle, but it’s determined, and soon enough Thor is shaking under him, the muscles of his thighs quaking, half with pleasure and half with the effort of holding himself open. It’s all dizzying sensation, stardust behind his eyelids and liquid fire in his veins, and he thinks that he might spill just like this, without so much as a hand on his cock.

Too soon, though, Loki stops what he’s doing. He climbs up the bed to lie between Thor’s legs and cups his face in both hands once more. His thumb lingers at the corner of Thor’s bad eye, just for a second, and the tenderness of the gesture threatens to steal Thor’s breath away. It’s unexpected, somehow, and maybe that is how he knows this is truly his brother. Not so predictable; not completely, at least.

“Thor,” Loki says, voice breathy and nervous, fingers tightening in his hair. Suddenly Thor regrets the loss of it all over again, wishes it were long enough for him to feel the sting. “Brother.”

There is a question in Loki’s eyes. It is, Thor thinks with a pang of frustration, one he ought to know the answer to by now. 

But this is Loki, and so Thor sits up and curls a hand around the back of his neck and brings their faces together so that their noses bump. “If I can’t feel you,” he murmurs, against Loki’s lips, “how am I ever supposed to believe you’re real?”

He feels Loki’s breath hitch more than he sees it. Loki’s hair is a mess, he’s flushed pink from forehead to chest, and his eyes darken as he reaches down to take himself in hand. The sight of him like this—overcome with want instead of fear or rage—tugs at something deep in Thor’s chest, makes him ache inside as well as out.

“Do you have anything?” Loki asks then, a little frown creasing his forehead.

Thor can’t help but frown back. Even exhausted from so long a journey, it should be the work of a second for a sorcerer of Loki’s power to conjure up a little slick. “Your magic?” he says softly, and Loki gives an impatient little shake of his head.

“It’s a long story. I’ll need some time.”

Selfishly, Thor’s heart sings to hear it. _Time_ means time together; means his brother does not mean to vanish with the dawn.

“What are you grinning at?” Loki asks, then, frown deepening, and Thor can only laugh and press their foreheads together.

“You,” he says, and turns to fumble in the nightstand drawer before his brother can take offence or demand further explanation.

He comes up with a little pot of—something, apparently a Midgardian salve for chapped lips. It’s a little too greasy, when he unscrews the lid and pokes at it, but in an emergency it will do.

And this does feel like an emergency. Thor needs it like air—more so, if recent events are any indication. He needs his brother’s living warmth atop him, inside him, deep enough he will be able to doubt no longer.

Loki takes the salve from him with trembling hands, and Thor’s mouth waters as he watches him slick his cock. He lowers his body over Thor’s, then, and Thor feels a punched-out gasp escape him as he pushes inside.

There’s discomfort there—it’s been a long time since Thor did this with anything but his own fingers, after all—and Loki stops and holds himself still, arrested by some expression that crosses Thor’s face. Oh, but he welcomes it, stretch and burn and all, and he digs his fingers into the muscles of Loki’s arse and gets out, “If you dare stop now—”

Whatever threat he was about to make is chased from his tongue and his mind as Loki rocks deeper into him, inch by inch until he finally, mercifully, bottoms out. Thor wraps arms and legs about him, breathing through the feeling of fullness and thinking that perhaps he will never let Loki go again. Loki allows it for a moment, his breath coming hard against Thor’s skin. 

Soon enough, though, he gives a slow, constrained roll of his hips and says through gritted teeth, “I thought you wanted me to fuck you?” His voice is tight, close to breaking.

Thor bites at the curve of his neck, where the tendons are taut beneath the skin with the effort of holding himself still, and loosens his hold in answer.

They rock together, slowly at first. Thor thinks of reaching down to stroke his own cock, but before he can do so Loki takes both his hands and presses them to the mattress, lacing their fingers together. With the way he’s looking down at Thor, open-mouthed and marvelling, it feels rather as though Loki is the one trying to reassure himself this is real. Thor finds he cannot bear to break the touch, and instead he tightens the grip of his thighs around his brother’s waist, lifting his hips in a wordless demand for more.

He gets it. They’ve found their rhythm now, and Loki moves harder and faster inside of him, sending waves of pleasure through him with every thrust until finally, Thor thinks it might be enough to quench the fire beneath his skin. 

“Oh,” he hears Loki breathe, sounding almost surprised by his own pleasure, “oh,” and then his hips buck wildly and Thor feels the warm rush of his spend, the desperate way he clings on tight as his eyelids flutter closed.

Thor lets Loki rest atop his chest a moment. Every sensation is magnified: the sticky slide of skin against skin; he can even feel his brother’s heartbeat slowing gradually against him.

Finally, finally, Loki reaches down to take Thor’s neglected cock in his hand, and Thor feels a groan of relief escape him. He lays his own hand atop his brother’s, brushing his thumb over the sensitive slit, already wet with pre-come, and setting the quick, ungentle pace he needs. Loki lets himself be guided, apparently mesmerised by the sight of Thor’s cock and the movement of their joined hands. It doesn’t take much—Thor feels as though he’s been hovering on the edge forever—and he comes with Loki still inside of him, painting his belly and both their hands with streaks of white.

They don’t talk, at first, just lie there regaining their breaths, entangled and half-stuck together with sweat and come. Rain drums on the roof of the little house, and the sound is comforting. It keeps the silence from becoming tense. 

It’s Thor who breaks the moment first, reaching out with his clean hand to brush Loki’s sweaty hair from his face, nosing against his cheek and placing a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Loki makes a small, contented sound and leans into it, his eyes closing.

“You still owe me an explanation, you know,” Thor says. 

Loki nods sleepily. “In the morning.”

It’s as close to a promise as he’s ever likely to get. “This is real, then,” he says. It isn’t a question, at last, but Loki cracks an eye open.

And then he moves as quick as a snake, and Thor finds a sticky smear of his own come painted right down his nose. 

“Real enough for you?” Loki asks, with a faint ghost of his old smirk, as Thor shoves at him in disgust and wipes his face clean with the bedcovers.

“I’ll get you back for that,” he promises once he’s done, flopping back down beside his brother.

“I appreciate the warning,” Loki tells him. “But perhaps… tomorrow?” There’s a note of something beside mischief in his voice, and Thor wraps an arm about his waist, suddenly feeling as though he is the one offering reassurance.

“Yes,” he agrees, and closes his eyes. “Tomorrow.”

Truly, tonight has been nothing like he imagined it. It’s been messy and desperate and imperfect, and Thor still has none of the answers he craves. But it has been real. And, he decides, pressing his lips to the bare curve of Loki’s shoulder, he would take it over a thousand beautiful dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ragnasok.tumblr.com).


End file.
